Page 55 of The Oyabun's Boy

Then I would hunt down everyone responsible for our separation, everyone who had put fear into those beautiful eyes. I would ensure they suffered exquisitely before meeting their end.

My uncle first, for orchestrating this. Then his lieutenants, his soldiers, his associates—a domino chain of blood and consequences.

A family tree pruned with extreme prejudice.

I opened my eyes, finding new resolve crystallized within me. The ropes were nearly loose enough now. Just a little longer.

"Your colleague appears nervous," I observed, nodding toward the fidgeting one. "Perhaps he's heard the stories."

"Shut up," the leader snapped, but his eyes darted to his associate, doubt creeping in.

"No need for rudeness," I replied mildly. "We're all professionals here. Well—" I glanced pointedly at their amateur torture setup, "—some of us are."

The blade pressed harder against my throat, drawing another thin line of blood. "You won't be so smug when the boss gets here," the leader growled.

Ah. Confirmation. These weren't the architects, just the laborers, building the foundation for someone else's revenge fantasy.

"Your boss," I said, rolling the word around my mouth like sampling a mediocre wine, "lacks both imagination and courage. Sending underlings to do his dirty work. Pathetic."

A flash of uncertainty crossed the leader's eyes. Had he been told I would break easily? Had he expected begging by now? The confusion in his expression suggested so.

Poor planning on their part. Fatal, really.

The smallest one whispered something to the others. I caught fragments: "...longer than expected" and "...should have called by now."

So they were on a schedule. Someone was monitoring their progress. Interesting.

I tested the ropes again. Almost there.

"You have approximately thirty seconds to release me," I said, my voice dropping to the register that made hardened killers step back. "After that, I'll be forced to get creative. And trust me—" I smiled, all teeth and promise, "—you won't enjoy my creativity."

They laughed—nervously at first, then with forced bravado.

Their final mistake.

"Thirty seconds," the leader mocked, knife still at my throat. "What happens then? Your fairy godmother appears?"

I thought of Joy—his warmth, his light, his ridiculous jokes about my "murder palace." I thought of Chairman Meow, who had finally deigned to sit on my lap yesterday morning, purring against my chest while Joy watched with that soft smile. I thought of the life I was building, unexpected and precious, waiting for me to return to it.

"Twenty seconds," I replied calmly.

The leader's smile faltered slightly. "You're not getting out of that chair."

"Fifteen seconds."

The smallest one backed up a step. Smartest of the bunch.

"Ten."

The leader pressed the knife harder, drawing a thin line of blood along my jaw. "You think this is a game?"

"Five."

The ropes gave just enough. I could feel the exact moment when restraint became merely symbolic rather than functional.

"Four."

I cataloged their positions: leader directly in front, knife at my throat. Second man to the right with pliers. Smallest one backing toward the door.